When We Were Amateurs
by Foul Fountain of Flies
Summary: Post-manga. Hiruma and Sena found themselves haunted by the same memories. One shot. Don’t suppose this is yaoi, but it’s subject to interpretation .


When We Were Amateurs

Disclaimer: Alas, I don't own Eyeshield 21. I still pray I did, in the cold lonely nights.

Summary: Post-manga. Hiruma and Sena found themselves haunted by the same memories. One shot (don't suppose this is yaoi, but it's subject to interpretation).

Notes: This is estimated to take place two years after the World Cup and is heavily based on the final chapter. Sena is bound to play for Enma University and Hiruma for Saikyoudai.

Number 17 is an OC of mine, obviously, who plays running back for the present Deimon Devil Bats. I'd like to think he's a freshman sensation or something; his 40 yard dash is 4.3 seconds and he's a sort of Gary Stu. Their opponents here are the Ojo White Knights. I think this is only appropriate because the team has a long tradition of awesome players and thus are eligible for championships. The outcome of this battle is supposed to determine which team will go to the Christmas Bowl.

* * *

Winter.

What were otherwise just boys scattered in motion on the field, resembling red and white buttons on a pool table. Sleets had begun raking through the gusts of air and an obvious condensation had already formed on their visors. Each time they exhaled, a scrim of white fog slithered out of their lips. Sena Kobayakawa had the feeling, as he watched them from the stands, that if they stuck out their tongues a little bit, they would taste the sharp flavor of the Christmas Bowl. The air was so thick of it.

Visually, the sentiment was just as strong. The stadium had been pimped up for the occasion. Tarpaulins and all sorts of advertisements hung by the steel shafts on the partial ceiling hundreds of feet up, and directly below Sena could see the freshly painted white lines paneling the grass. On it, Number 17 careened through the space. A needle-flash in the cold. Sena could sense him gathering momentum, forty yards in 4.3 seconds, ducking a couple of times, almost tripping on his way to the world of the speed of light. Blink once, and you miss him. Toward the end zone his dodge came too late and Ojo's corner back hurled him down the ground. A mixture of delighted gasps and disappointed moans issued from the crowd. He got up quickly as though it would buy him more time. Underneath the pads, his chest was in a violent ebb and flow. Sena wondered if someone's short and heavy breaths could ever pass as whatever was going on in another person's mind; at the same instant, he realized that he was drawing from familiarity. He had grown too accustomed to that feeling and pressure not to recognize them elsewhere. Hence this boy, Number 17, was a maelstrom of emotions waiting to happen. Sena Kobayakawa had been like that, once.

He adjusted his eyes. He could see at the side of his vision that the clock was running down to Ojo's advantage, but even if he couldn't it would be easy to tell just by Deimon's body language. With time, their desperation heightened. Their bloodstream was in a chaotic state, pulse beating violently with each ticking moment. In a minute they gathered in position. The neutral zone was marked on the last 50-yard slice or so, giving them roughly above seven seconds to turn the match into a deadlock; in another age, Sena would call it a second chance.

Deimon's quarterback slid the ball to Number 17 soon as the play resumed. If Ojo read the move, they were certainly taking it calmly. On the offensive, 17 zoomed off for the final stab. The crowd then fell to a hush like a court audience awaiting the defendant's sentence, and when Number 17 shoved past bodies, yanking aside one linebacker after the other, their fate had been sealed. Right up to the end, the second chance was an illusion.

Sena let out a groan. He knew that this was a welcome possibility all along: Deimon was bound to spend a good portion of their time trying to keep up with Ojo's defense that by the time they had flipped the ball over to their end, the clock had wound down to zero. And it did. Sena heard the buzzer seemingly after the fact, an explosion following it, and half the spectators suddenly reduced to hysterics coupled with irregular applause. The announcer's voice became submerged in the medley of howls and it made Sena frown and wonder if their victory on this same field two or so years ago was even anywhere near grandly received. He guessed that he was too busy coping with his own emotions to ever notice the change and the addition. Only this time he couldn't sense any affinity with the event, because the guys who were filled with joy in their hearts, whose tears were threatening to leak, were the Ojo White Knights. He would have slightly appreciated their joy if that smug serves-you-right-Deimon look wasn't all so plainly written on their faces. Opposite them, the Deimon Devil Bats had dropped their shoulders. The temperature, too, had dropped a few degrees and Sena couldn't remember a game this cold. It occurred to him that Ojo's coldly received victory was not likely to be any comfort to the challengers, his Deimon Devil Bats. Whatever the climate, the fact of a victory never changes.

He opted not to linger for the awards ceremony and closing remarks. He justified it with the fact that his role here had ended when he stepped out of Japan during his final term and joined Notre Dame High School abroad. He retreated from the railings, the concrete frozen beneath his soles and the lights behind fading like moving taillights. He was a few meters from the exit when he felt a slight tug at his coat. He spun around and saw a boy of about eight holding out a notebook and a pen. Sena could tell that he had been eyeing him on guard for some time now, waiting for his chance to pounce. He took the stuff from the boy, decided a smile wouldn't hurt, and signed his name on the paper with a small dedication. The crowd inside the stadium resorted to noises of a totally different level that to both of them, even when they were no longer part of the mob, speech was simply futile. So with a few gestures of thanks and 'you're welcome', their communication was complete.

"You of all fucking people should not be doing that in public."

Amidst the on-going clamor, that voice emerged. It didn't require extra volume: to Sena, it was recognizable by simply being said.

"Hiruma-sempai," Sena could feel his eyes widening as he watched Youichi Hiruma covering the sidewalks that separated them. He hadn't spoken to him in a while. "I was just about to go." he turned up his volume.

"Taking autographs on a day like this when you're not the fucking champion is disrespectful. Thought I should give you a friendly reminder." Hiruma said as he approached Sena. His dye was as bright as it was and he was dressed in the usual head-to-toe black, a perfect score for someone else's funeral. Two years ago Sena would have wholeheartedly believed that the ice melted upon the slightest contact with Hiruma.

"I know, but he's just a little kid. I couldn't just turn him away. Anyone knows--"

"Cut the wimp act. I'm not your fucking captain anymore." Hiruma was smirking. It was one of his mind games again. "So, did boredom drag you to some unknown shores again?"

"I just thought I should see the match." Sena said, thinking that Hiruma was bound to be curious about it.

"So did I, shrimp. Nice place to pick up where we left off, don't you think?" Hiruma paused and just when Sena thought he was about to say something touching, he went on, "Those fuckers had the choice to call themselves something else, yet they stuck with Devil Bats. Funny, eh?"

Sena pondered. Like any word Hiruma said, what it was on the surface was nothing like it underneath. He knew that the Deimon principal had insisted on changing the name of their American Football team once Hiruma and his team had graduated, but the incoming players had something else in their minds. Ever since Deimon's players' outstanding performance at the Christmas Bowl and the World Cup, promising ones from various middle schools crowded at the academy's doorstep, thinking it was their one shot at glory. Though most had argued that with Hiruma's exit the Devil Bats title and its mascot no longer applied, they wanted to march under the same banner, to inherit the famous name. They were, like the ones after them, inspired by a less noble cause.

"Now they stained the name with this sorry mess they call their strategy. They had it coming: Ojo got them hook, line, and sinker way from the start." Hiruma grumbled. But his pensive tone had caught Sena's attention and suddenly he knew what his sempai meant: Hiruma's Devil Bats would never buckle under pressure like that.

"It's weird," Sena managed to give it a start. "I never would have thought you'd still be interested in high school games." He finished. He understood Hiruma as a person who would not bother with things when he doesn't see anything in it for him. Sena was sure Hiruma wasn't there for recruits, since even the oldest players on the present Deimon squad wouldn't be in college until Hiruma graduated.

"Who's the fucker who said I'm interested?" Hiruma gave him a menacing stare.

"But you saw the match..."

"Sure I saw it, and failed to acquire the right tolerance for it. A fine legacy these losers will be leaving on Deimon." Instead of a dismayed frown, Hiruma's face was blank. Sena remembered that in crucial times, Hiruma would assume this kind of expression as though nothing crossed his thoughts.

"To Number 17's credit, he's a great runner. I enjoyed watching him." And Sena realized that he was telling the truth.

"Great in potential. Sadly, I don't deal with what _could be_. Funny how I practically went out of my way to get this irritated just by watching a bunch of muscle freaks." Hiruma sighed. Then he posed the question which would turn the conversation around, "Did you think he would remind you of yourself back then? Did you hope he would? Is that why you came to watch this pathetic excuse for a championship game?"

This surprised Sena. Whether it was safer to be silent or not was the thought that now filtered through his brain. The answer to that was plain, but it carried with it a degree of embarrassment that Sena would rather have not brought up. He had no purposeful intention in watching the match; this much was true. What brought him there was purely out of sentimental reasons. He'd wanted to see Deimon Devil Bats, see their red uniforms wading through the battlefield like flags of pride and determination. He wanted to see himself in them and know what it feels like to admire instead of being admired and at the end of it all still say to himself that he was part of all the glory. A romantic fool stricken with nostalgia, that's how he would've described himself.

"I guess I miss Deimon... our Devil Bats." he finally admitted. "So in a way, or maybe I forced myself to feel it, Number 17 did remind me of myself back then."

"Fucking hypocrite. Is that how you take it? Just because the wimp runs as fast as you, you think he's like you?"

"I'm not sure yet, Hiruma-sempai. But since they've gone this far they are entitled to some recognition."

"Recognizing that they are good and likening them to my Devil Bats are two very different things." Hiruma glared at Sena as though to communicate warning. Sena knew it would be trouble to remark on Hiruma's stress on 'my' before 'Devil Bats'. "Be careful of what you think and say, shrimp."

Though afraid, none of this prevented Sena from realizing what explained Hiruma's presence; the same reason had unmistakably whisked Hiruma Youichi to this place, where they both thought--or rather hoped--that things would shuttle them back to the past, if only for several surreal minutes. Their shared failure to be reminded had caused Hiruma some anger, which had nothing to do with the present team possessing the same name or losing in the finals or even the humiliation it would entail. Hiruma, too, suffered from the same sickness as Sena's: he missed the Devil Bats.

"Hiruma-sempai..."

"These brats never had to experience what we had to in order to get here. It didn't cost them anything." And Hiruma was right. The line-up of the present team had generally consisted of middle school stars who would never know or understand what it feels like to start off as amateurs. "It's a crime to expect that they could be like us."

"They don't have to work as hard. That's true," Sena said. "But more importantly, they don't have you as their commander."

Hiruma looked at him in the same way he would when he'd ask him to risk his life out there in the open, to run like hell with the last ounce of his energy, daring him to be honest and brave, years ago. "If that fucking Number 17 was even remotely like you, given the chance, he'd go for a dive. Seems to me he was shitscared of breaking his neck in the process."

Sena took pleasure in Hiruma's annoyance but took note of the truth in the statement. "And who else could have succeeded in persuading me to break my neck? The thought of what you'd do to me if I didn't sure is scarier than if I actually died doing it." Saying this, he couldn't help but laugh.

Hiruma grinned and for a moment, the winter sky seemed to have cleared up. There was more snow around them than they ever cared to see in their lifetime and the ground beneath them was soft, oddly warm and accommodating amidst an otherwise crazy weather.

"So how would it be for you and Enma University, seeing that I won't be in league with you this time?"

"Strange, I guess." Sena replied and he couldn't have been more honest than he was being. Having to spend a year without Hiruma was strange until it became ordinary, and the ordinary became strange until the line between them broke and gave way. "I won't be doing any neck-breaking till then, and it's supposed to be on the plus side."

"Kekeke. Consider yourself warned then; Saikyoudai is going to crush you. I suggest you toughen that neck up at any rate."

"I will, Hiruma-sempai." Sena responded, a cold resignation washing over his face. "That's one of the reasons why I came back."

"Well said, shrimp."

Hiruma started tracing his way to the opposite side, his figure gradually disappearing in the distance. Sena wheeled around the other way and started to walk, or at least he started moving, when he was plunged deep in thought. He didn't mention that the main reason why he returned to his homeland, despite handsome offers abroad, was to settle close to his origins, his roots. He knew, a few weeks into Notre Dame, that he just couldn't afford to live with the regrets of leaving Japan or Deimon behind entirely. That's why he came back, altogether forfeiting those lovely opportunities. Hence when it comes down to it, he was just another sentimental fool. He was midway toward the first corner when an idea occurred to him.

"Hiruma-sempai!!!"

Hiruma's distinct form was a dot in the landscape and when he turned around, Sena could hardly make out his expression. "Eh?"

"I was thinking," Sena said loud enough for the entire block to hear. "So I guess... well, I suppose, we're back to square one?" he stammered. Somehow he knew he would always rely on Hiruma to give him the cue to move on. He would always need him to give him the go signal.

"Nope, we're not. It already began _there_." Yes, it started there. And Sena knew that he was referring to the very beginning and was glad that they both remembered: Their Genesis in detail, the times when Hiruma would blast shells off his firearms and shower them over his slaves. It all started when Sena was chased all over the town by a pack of goons as Hiruma Youichi watched in bliss, witnessing the true color and texture of potential. His greatest discovery, he dubbed it. A discovery that would never again be replicated.

Now in college and a superstar in his own right, Sena didn't have to contend with those goons and devils and bullies anymore. Hiruma granted him that privilege in the most unconventional ways and right now, nearly three years later in a place strewn with faces of strangers, he was doing the same thing for Sena again. This time he was urging him to move on, to continue, and not to start all the way from box one.

"It started a long time ago." Hiruma went on as his echoes fed the frigid air. "We were amateurs."

Sena only needed to hear those words to understand what sets their Devil Bats apart from _their_ Devil Bats. With the former, ties are bound to remain long after everyone has gone their separate ways.

END


End file.
